


A Pleasant Tomorrow

by Lafayette1777



Category: Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Live RPF, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Relationship Confusion, all-nighters, and i personally believed colin has fucked like half the cast, basically:, comedy husbands, everyone is bisexual and sleep deprived, i am officially naming the jost/che ship Chost, if no one has named it already, im surprised i didnt end up writing this sooner, lorne never makes an appearance but is scary and omnipresent regardless, stress!!!!, you know having watched colin and michael together for a year or so now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: It's all a game.
Or, the one where Colin doesn't sleep, and things go a little pear-shaped.





	

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: please god i hope no one ever sees this. don’t sue me lorne. please. ive written my fair share of embarrassing rpf but usually the people involved have little to no web presence and colin and michael are waaaayyy too active on the internet for comfort. fuck fuck fuck. lorne’s gonna kill me.  
> also, idk if these two have a ship name yet but “chost” seems appropriate and that should be it tbh
> 
> this is a disaster

There’s a loveseat stuffed into a corner of his office but today, like most days, it’s stacked with paper and clothes and miscellaneous props. So, in the usual inextricable combination of frustration and exhaustion, he slides his laptop over and lays his head down on the desk. It’s unclear, even to him, whether he intends to fall asleep; regardless, he’s out in seconds. 

When he awakes, it’s to a tapping at his temple. 

“What’s happening?” he slurs, feeling a few vertebrae crack as he raises his head. He looks down to find he’s fallen asleep on an uncapped pen; one glance at the reflective black of his computer screen confirms the line of ink snaking below his cheekbone. 

Che says, “You left your door open and I thought you were having some kind of breakdown.” He knocks off a pile of last week’s sketches and plops down onto the couch, smirking. The paper spreads across the floor like tile.

“You know I don’t have my meltdown until Friday evening,” Colin deadpans, rubbing at the ink on his cheek. “Today was the just the usual Wednesday existential crisis.”

Che immediately raises his voice a few octaves in mocking imitation of him. “‘What _is_ funny? Is _anything_ funny? What is real? What is fake?’”

“What is love?” adds Colin, supporting his head with one fist as he revives his laptop, glancing back over the meager offering he has so far for this week’s Update. “I fell asleep on a burger once,” he says sullenly, apropos of nothing. Actually, he’s thinking about the pen again; his eyes glaze over as he looks at what he’s written, shared between the laptop and a notepad to make it look more substantial. “My first week on the show. I thought I was dying.”

“What time is it?” Che asks, untangling a spare tie from the pile of suit jackets and winter coats to his left. 

“Four in the morning,” Colin says. “I guess it’s a Thursday existential crisis now.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“Like for the show or for life in general?”

Che pulls out a faded Harvard pullover from the pile and lays it over himself for warmth. He shrugs.

“None whatsoever.” It’s harder, since the election. Harder to find the line between funny and unfunny. Between real and fake. It’s easier to rely on the nonsense side of Weekend Update, but even in fake news it’s impossible to ignore the biggest stories. There’s an aspect of responsibility, too, though he can’t quite figure out what it is or where it fits in. The mood of the cast oscillates between business as usual and utter despondency. It’s always worse at night. 

Outside, it is very dark, despite the lights of the city. Che burrows further into the couch. 

There’s quiet for a long while. Colin types out a few more words, is unsure what they say. What they mean. He wonders if Che’s fallen asleep, but looks over to find him on his phone, the fluorescence of the screen lighting the contours of his face that the dim overhead can’t reach. 

Che meets his eyes, then gestures vaguely at his cheek. “You’ve got a little...”

Colin, again, scrubs at the ink, but Che just shakes his head and rises stiffly. He crosses the room in two long strides, and then his thumb is moving across the right side of Colin’s face, firm and smooth, over the fading line. Colin tilts his head to allow Che a better angle, and their eyes meet. He knows it’s a mistake the moment it happens. It’s too early; the day is too new and they’ve barely been reborn in it. Michael’s thumb stops moving, the air grows thick. Neither of them breaks away their gaze. 

Later, Colin will wonder if something might have happened in that moment, if Pete Davidson hadn’t appeared in the doorway. 

“Okay, I’ve got a bit for the Update,” Pete says, straightening a pile of lined paper ripped from a steno pad. He’s oblivious to the air in the room. “Been up all night, haven’t read through it. What day is it?”

Michael has withdrawn his hand. Colin thinks that if he were slightly more conscious right now, he would find it in himself to blush. Instead, he takes the segment notes from Pete and replies, “Thursday.”

Pete just gives a languid blink. He’s dressed in a hoodie that’s too baggy in the middle but too short on his lanky frame. He glances at Che, still halfway hunched over Colin, then says, “I need to go lie down.”

Colin watches him go, and wishes he had the energy to say something encouraging, or at least call out a thank you for the Update bit. But his tongue feels heavy, and his head heavier. Pete escapes and leaves the room steeped in silence. Over the last few months, Colin has adopted him as a younger brother, of sorts. Maybe because they’re both from Staten Island, maybe he just thinks Pete’s funny. That’s not quite it, though; Colin, for the most part, thinks _everyone_ is funny. And everything. 

Maybe it _is_ the Staten Island thing, then, but deeper than just geography. Pete is easy to understand, from his vantage point. Even if Colin was in college in Boston at the time, he imagines they spent September 11th in very much the same way—worrying about their parents, and every fireman and paramedic on the block. The only difference is Pete could probably see the smoke rising from Manhattan from his own backyard. 

The only difference is Colin called his mom that night, heard her voice reassure him she was safe and out of harm’s way for the foreseeable future. Meanwhile, Pete’s got a helmet and the number _8418_ staring out from his left arm. 

It’s probably better not to dwell on that fact. 

Che murmurs a “see you later” and ducks out the room with remarkable speed. Colin, still smudged with ink, makes the executive decision to go take a nap in Leslie’s office. She’s seated at the end of her couch, editing scripts with red pen in the dim morning light. One look at the state of him has her inviting him in, allowing him to lie with his head on her lap and descend into oblivion in seconds. 

“You’ve got a little gray poking out,” she says, brushing a hand through his hair just before he nods off. “You’re gonna be dead by 50.”

“It’s Che’s fault,” he mutters, and doesn’t hear her reply, only the vibration of her laughter against his cheek. 

 

 

 

“Michael and Colin to the stage for Weekend Update,” the disembodied voice of one the stage managers calls out, over the intercom. There’s a continuous fervor of activity around him as Colin trudges down the hall, but he’s not slept enough this week to pick up the nature of any of it. Che joins him just before they roll out onto the stage. It’s the Friday rehearsal for individual sketches, the last for the Update before the dress and then the show itself. So no one minds if Che’s wearing only an undershirt and Colin’s hair is at a ninety degree angle with his head. 

“Welcome to Weekend Update, I’m Colin Jost.”

“And I’m Michael Che.” Che taps his pen impatiently on the desk and squints at a cue card. “Dear god, I thought we cut that one? That can’t be the first thing we come in with.”

Colin rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You got a better idea?”

“I dunno, maybe something actually funny?”

They glare at each other for a moment, but Che is the first to break; his edge of his mouth curls up into a smirk and then they’re both laughing stupidly. Colin leans back in his chair, locked into an open mouthed guffaw, and even when he recovers the next three jokes are delivered with gaffe after gaffe, each sending them off into giggles yet again. The rest of it’s called off due to their lack of professionalism before they even make it to Pete’s bit. 

“I really need to get some actual sleep,” Colin is saying, as they trip back towards the offices. Perhaps it’s the time of the year: the loss of light and heat that comes with the fall months coalescing to make him particularly exhausted. Che says nothing, just puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in, until their strides synchronize and it’s like their one person, laughing at their own jokes and holding onto themselves for dear life. 

 

 

 

The part of Colin that’s always been a head writer is what has him making lists, organizing each day into a set of tasks, into a rational routine. And though Che will happily and mercilessly make fun of his more neurotic tendencies, there are parts they indulge in together. Che is always by his side when he watches the Update desk get rolled out, as per Colin’s carefully planned weekend ritual. And Che is always happy to spend the extra moment organizing their jokes for the Update into neat columns on the corkboard above his desk. For creative types, they’re both awfully fond of straight lines. 

Maybe that’s why they avoid the implications of their relationship like the plague, sidestepping each other’s advances whenever possible. There’s no doubt in Colin’s mind that they feel the same way, regarding the reasons they should be together and the reasons they should be apart. It’s a bit of a game, now—seeing how far they can push things before one of them crumbles, maybe even confesses. Maybe ruins the friendship, the Update, their careers. They’re comedians; it’s in their nature to push the envelope, even when the risks are great. And when life is lived in week long intervals, from Saturday night to Saturday night, it’s easy to assume the game can go on forever, that they can live in suspended animation as long as they choose, without consequences. They can stare at each other when they think the other is asleep and touch each other unnecessarily as often as possible and perhaps nothing ever has to change and their world can retain what little organization it has left. 

The night of the show, one of the make up artists spends twenty minutes trying to lighten the charcoal circles beneath Colin’s eyes. Then it’s three different hair products, and the soothing, rhythmic motion of fingers running over his scalp has him nodding off again, despite the building adrenaline of the imminent performance. Kate nudges him awake just before she heads out for the cold open, sends him a bug-eyed thumbs up before venturing out into the noise and the lights. If there’s one thing he regrets about only doing Update, he thinks spontaneously, it’s that he never gets to say those most joyous of words:

_And live from New York, it’s Saturday night!_

He finds Che in the hallway, just out of the fluctuating path of costumes and set pieces making their way to and from backstage. As per the routine, he lets Colin tie his tie, because he knows Colin usually needs something menial to do to settle his nerves. Afterwards, Colin smooths his jacket, lets his hand linger on Che’s chest. They meet eyes. There is barely any space between them. 

It’s all a game.

Even this week, when everything feels fragile and out-of-sorts. Even though Colin can’t seem to pull out of Che’s orbit and remind himself why it’s a game in the first place. 

A producer runs by with a clipboard, shouting “We’re three minutes short!”, and finally they pull away from each other. Colin, turning back toward the stage, realizes he has no idea how he’s going to do this show. Everything feels, oddly, like a disaster waiting to happen. Some far off corner of his brain asks, _What_ is _funny? Is_ anything _funny?_ Leslie passes by on the way out for the second sketch, dragging a salacious finger across Colin’s cheek as she goes. She turns back only to lift one wicked eyebrow, and he grins in response. 

Finally, they’re called out, seated at the desk thirty seconds before they come back in from commercial. Colin tries to keep his eyes from glazing over as he looks at the first cue card. Somewhere above him, the intro sequence plays, and then a producer is motioning for them to begin. 

Che has the first story. It’s the one they were meant to cut, and the combination of the bad joke and Michael’s obvious aversion to telling it has Colin cackling. By the time camera pans over to him for the next joke, Colin is laughing so hard he can’t breathe, and his face has gone red from hairline to collar. Che snorts, and reads the joke Colin was supposed to, and then looks back to find Colin with his head on the desk, shoulders still shaking. Che, of course, knows how to play it off. Damage control. 

“Looks like someone’s gotten into Pete Davidson’s weed stash,” Che says to the camera, smirking like this is all part of the plan. Part of the game.

As if on cue, Pete comes rolling out from backstage, and Colin finally manages to raise his head off the desk and wheeze out the question that’s supposed to spur Pete’s lines. The camera moves to Pete only, and Colin bites the palm of his hand and listens to the blood pump in his ears until he has some semblance of control again. 

Pete, as he finishes an assessment of the pros and cons of driving under the influence and rolls out of the frame, sends Colin a concerned look, but then Che is pulling on his sleeve so that they both face forward again for the outro. Colin, now blushing from embarrassment rather than exertion, manages a weak smile before the segment ends and they’re shepherded out from under the lights. 

“What the hell was that?” Michael asks, once they’re in limbo—out of reach of the cameras, but not yet consumed by the fervor and judgment of backstage proper. 

“I dunno,” Colin replies, voice still ragged. He feel sweaty and unkempt; his tie to tight and everything falling through his fingers. “I dunno, but you saved us.”

Che, thankfully, doesn’t seem to see the look of awe Colin sends him as they venture back toward the dress rooms. Che is so unfailingly funny, without ever missing a beat, that Colin can never decide whether he should be jealous or just reverential. Che’s got a warm hand guiding Colin by the elbow, now, out of the path of anyone who will assault them with questions, friendly or unfriendly. 

“Let’s get out of here before Lorne skins you,” Che says, loosening the tie knot that had been tenderly put together not so long ago. He leads them briskly toward the elevators, and Colin can’t take his eyes off him the whole way. 

 

 

 

For Pete, the rest of the night unfolds circuitously, first with screaming, then crying, then more screaming. By the time the first light of morning is beginning to break over the city and the last after party peters out, he’s on his own, sulking. He’ll call her later, apologize, maybe shed more tears along with her, and the week will begin again. This is the routine. The drama of it is almost cathartic; it makes him cherish his girlfriend all the more. 

And perhaps Sunday mornings are meant for solitude, anyways. 

If that’s true, though, he decides to ignore it once he finds himself on the Lower East Side. And then on a block he’d grown familiar with that long weekend over last winter break when he’d had his wisdom teeth out, gotten in a fight with his mother while high on painkillers, and dragged himself to Colin’s to recuperate. He’d crashed on the couch for three days and they’d watched whatever miscellaneous sports were on ESPN whenever they happened to turn it on. Pete had, at the time, wondered if that was what it felt like to have a brother, or if it was something else entirely. 

Now, it’s barely seven, and he’s wide awake from a strangely potent combination of liquor, weed, and cocaine. But there’s a headache brewing behind his eyes, and he’s not sure he has the strength to trudge back home yet, to face the mess that is always the day after a show. He’s tromping up a narrow stairway and rapping on the door of the third floor apartment before he can talk himself out of it.

On the other side of the door, he hears a voice, and then the sound of sleep-heavy footsteps tripping towards the entrance. Detachedly, it occurs to Pete that perhaps it’s rude to call on your friends in the early hours of the morning, especially after you know he’s had a rough night. Or perhaps it’s magnanimity—no one should have to stew alone after fucking up so royally on live TV. 

Colin is still pulling a shirt over his head when he opens the door. He’s got a smattering of gray and brown stubble over the lower half of his face, and the remnants of product in his hair from the night before have given him an impressive cowlick. He’s wearing glasses instead of contacts, too; an unusual occurrence, and the frames seem to soften his boyish face even further. If Pete thinks about it, there’s a lot to notice about Colin. 

He doesn’t think about it. 

Colin is still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

Pete shrugs. “I just don’t want to go home quite yet.”

Colin’s eyebrows raise infinitesimally, but his eyes still seem half closed. He waves Pete inside, tosses a few things off the couch to make room for him to sit. He asks, “Is Lorne angry?”

“I doubt it. You’re the favorite child, after all,” Pete replies, smirking. “Though he did slither off somewhat suspiciously last night. But you and Che did too, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Colin echoes, rubbing tiredly at his face. Abruptly, he turns toward the kitchen, collecting coffee fixings as he approaches the stove top. 

“You’re allowed to fuck up once, Jost,” a voice says, from somewhere over Pete’s left shoulder. He turns to find Che emerging from the bedroom, in only boxers and a Harvard tee that’s too short for him and too tight around the shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world. Yet.”

“Oh, Che,” Pete’s eyebrows shoot up. Suddenly the apartment looks different; it’s not been a night of Colin wallowing in his own worry, then. At least one of them had the decency to keep him company as more than just an afterthought. Still, he asks, “What’re you doing here?”

Che frowns at him, but after a moment his mouth is twisting into the kind of smirk that usually prefaces him calling someone a “window-licking waterhead.” Che pulls one arm over his head to stretch the muscles in his back. “Take a fucking guess, Pete.”

“Um—”

Colin, very deliberately, isn’t looking up from where he’s shoveling coffee grounds with a spoon. Che doesn’t wait for a response from Pete, but crosses the kitchen and lays a possessive hand on Colin’s hip.

_Oh._

Che murmurs, lips close to Colin’s ear, something Pete can’t hear. Colin snorts. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, I kiss _you_ with that mouth,” Che sneers, and then they’ve melded into one. Colin’s hand lands on the back of Che’s neck; the gap closes. They become one silhouette against the early light filtering in through the window over the sink. Pete is invisible; eventually, he even manages to look away.

Afterwards, Colin goes back to the coffee. Che leans against the counter next to him, watching him work. Pete can’t think of even one thing to say—a distinctly unfamiliar feeling. Colin and Michael are on a plateau somewhere far, far away, but still it feels like some shared axis between the three of them has shifted. 

“So,” Colin says finally, just as the kettle begins to boil. “If I’m a straight 8 and a gay 10, does that make me a bisexual 9?”

“Ummm...yes?” Pete says, and Che laughs. 

Colin turns around, a mug in each hand. He shrugs. “Seems fair.”

“Actually, I should get home.” Pete gets to his feet before Colin can offer him a cup. “Sorry to wake you up.”

“It’s fine.” Colin sends him an odd look. “Really.”

“Nah, I’m off.” 

He waves to them once over his shoulder, but doesn’t look back. Still, the image of the two of them, more together than ever before, stays with him long after he’s again cushioned by the cold morning air.

**Author's Note:**

> lafayette1777.tumblr.com


End file.
